You Want Me to Emote About My Wife? Fine! Here It Is!
John ShoreBesides here on Crosswalk, John blogs on JohnShore.com.
- 2009 Sep 04
I'm every day aware that when I die I will do so having in the course of my life been known by exactly one person. I have a slight relationship with my father, even less of one with my older sister, and haven't seen or spoken with my mother in thirty-five years. I don't know any of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, or nephews. The work I do I do alone. I have no children. I have no friends with whom I regularly hang out.
What I have is Catherine. She doesn't know her family any more than I do mine. One of our very first experiences together was the eerie one of being the only two people remaining in the dormitories at San Francisco State University after everyone else went home for the Christmas break. Neither of us had any home to go home to. We were "home."
When we met we were like two rats in madly rushing waters who bump into each other and then cling together in hopes of staving off their inevitable drowning.
Cat's morning alarm just went off. So I'll stop writing this now, so I won't have to tell her how I can't spend time with her because I'm writing about how much I love to spend time with her.
But she'll come downstairs, and when I first see her I'll be so dazzled that for a weirdly disorienting moment the sole thing of which I'll be aware is how utterly I just fell in love with this stunning stranger of a woman in my house. It's happened just like that, every single morning, for thirty years. I can never believe it. I won't believe it again this morning.
And when she appears I will see in her eyes what for me is the miracle, which is how much she loves me. It's a weird thing to say, but as long as we're sharing let me just tell you that that girl loves me. She adores me. She thinks the sun rises and sets in my eyes. She's always looking at me like she's seven years old, and I'm the wrapped present next to the Christmas tree that's bigger than the tree. It's insane. One of her many loving nicknames for me (and now we are sharing) is "Hero."
Without question the challenge of my life has been learning how to deal with somebody loving me as absolutely and unconditionally as Cat does. I had no idea anyone could ever love anyone with the unswerving intensity with which she loves me. The only thing she's ever wanted for me is my happiness. If I wanted to be a writer, that's what she wanted for me. If I wanted to be a car mechanic, that's what she wanted for me. If I wanted to lie on the couch all day drinking beer and watching movies that, shall we say, went direct to video, she thought that was the greatest thing in the world.
I began trying to make a living as a writer when I was twenty years old. In the thirty years since then, Cat has not once come home from work and asked me how my writing went that day. Can you imagine? She's never asked because she's never cared. The single issue of her life is whether or not I'm happy. She couldn't care less if I "make it" as a writer. If I make money writing, that's fine. If I don't, that's fine. She likes money. She likes not having money.
The only thing she really likes is me.
So she's a freak. This, going in, I knew.
Anyway, I hear her up on the third floor of the townhouse into which we moved this time last year. It's the first home we ever bought. It's built to look and feel like a castle in a fairy tale.
Here she comes.
Here comes the sun.